Rain hung thick in the air, turning leaves glossy and heavy. Celine patrolled the veranda in a faded lilac shift dress, her arms folded tight as if she could hold herself together by sheer will. Her hair curled wild at her temples, dark circles bruised the skin beneath her watchful eyes. She paused, knuckles white on the balustrade, as Zatira staggered up the path—jeans muddy, yellow tee clinging damp to her frame, a haunted smile stretched too tight.

Celine’s chest tightened with old tenderness and fresh suspicion. “You’re late,” she murmured, voice softer than the accusation trembling in her throat. Zatira’s lashes fluttered. “Plant samples took longer.” There was a catch in her voice. Guilt, or something worse.

Inside, the lodge thrummed with unease. Roen braced himself against the office door, broad chest rising and falling with each fractured breath. His charcoal shirt hung open at the throat, stubble shadowing his jaw. He stared at a faded photograph—three smiling faces, one missing. Siahra’s voice, high with frustration, echoed from the hall. He ran a hand through his storm-tousled hair, jaw clenched, the mask of control warping at the edges.

Down the corridor, Siahra pressed her palms flat to a windowpane, hair still damp from a midnight swim, her white camisole translucent with rain. She watched Zatira approaching, the sharp thrum of jealousy twisting beneath her ribs. She remembered the sound Zatira had made—broken, desperate—when she’d begged for forgiveness by the dying campfire. Siahra’s own anger pulsed hot and raw: she’d lost Roen to Zatira for a night, and nothing between them felt safe anymore.

Celine caught Zatira by the wrist just inside the utility closet, voice trembling. “Tell me the truth, Zatira. About the accident. I deserve that much.” Zatira stared at her, eyes wide, desperate. A confession tumbled out between sobs: “It was me. I meant to help—I thought the plant could heal him, but it made him worse. I begged Roen to keep it secret.” She swiped at her tears, hands shaking. “I can’t lose you too.”

Celine’s anger and heartbreak warred on her face, lips bitten pale. She pulled her hand back, as if scorched. “You could have told me. All these months—” She shook her head, tears glittering in her lashes. “I don’t even know who I am to any of you.”

In the bar’s smoky hush, Roen cornered Siahra near the pool table. He looked wrecked—shirt untucked, fingers fidgeting with the buttons. “You don’t trust me,” she accused, voice small but steady. He reached out, only to let his hand fall useless. “Trust is a luxury I can’t give,” he rasped. The weight of every secret pressed between them. She turned to go, her throat thick with unshed tears. “Then you’ll lose me.”

Zatira, mascara smudged and shoulders trembling, let herself fall into a stranger’s arms out on the veranda, chasing warmth in the wrong places. His hands were rough, the kiss all hunger and none of the devotion she craved, but it dulled the ache—at least for a moment.

Celine stood alone in the laundry room, wringing a towel with white-knuckled fury. Her heart beat out an answer she didn’t want to hear: forgiveness wouldn’t save her this time.

As dawn crept in, Siahra found her travel bag packed by her cabin door. A scrap of paper poked from beneath the handle: Leave before you regret everything. Her breath caught, hand trembling.

Roen stumbled down the empty corridor, eyes red—lost for the first time, control slipping through his fingers.

Outside, Zatira watched the sun rise, mud streaked on her shins, hope and shame warring as she wondered if she’d ever forgive herself.

And from the jungle’s tangled edge, a shadow watched the lodge—phone raised, snapping photos—before disappearing into the trees.

To be continued...